Tuesday, October 30, 2012

The
History Department Office… was off the head of one hallway… that diverged from
another hallway… that came from the rear entrance to the building… AND the
hallway holding the locked dead professor’s office “number nine”.My professional mental memo pad
pleasingly noted that THIS LOCATION made office number nine a far and dead end
journey from that history department office.That means “Who’s going to …go there (number nine)?”.And I noted that… that is WHY the old
professor was in “number nine” to begin with; “get him out of the way”.And THAT not only was fine logistics
for me NOW but also… had allowed for the creation of that office contents over
“for at least a century” to begin with.I really should write the department a thank you note for providing such
a splendid and remote space for the old professor to fill up totally NOT
MOLESTED.

It
also helped buttress the risk management “who’s got a key?” issue for, again,
“who’s going to go there?”.In
fact… I confided to myself… “WHO even knows THAT OFFICE is there TO go
to?”.My visit to the History
Department Office affirmed this risk management buttress.

The
door was open.The office was well
lighted.Big windows on one
side.A workstation desk at the
front center… with no one in it.Triangulating away were two more workstation desks with the one to the
right having a woman at work upon it.Continuing the triangulation away were… three doors to three offices…
all closed.I stepped to and stood
before the head-of-the-pyramid first desk upon entering.One is received THERE I assumed.

The
women in the right workstation behind stopped word processing, looked up and
said “May I help?” in a familiar tone.

“I
am here to confirm the cleanout of office number nine for the attorney…”

“Yes
he just called you are all set you have the key the parking tags will not be
issued until tomorrow morning.”

“Oh.Good.” I said walking over to her
workstation from the front desk.“When can I start?”

“He
said you were starting tomorrow”.

“I
mean what time can I start in the morning; how early?”

“Oh.Well.The building is opens at SIX.We don’t open the office until EIGHT.You COULD start before we open.The parking tags will not be here until
eight.But that doesn’t matter
because no one is HERE before eight.”

“I’d
like to start at SEVEN.” I said now standing before her workstation.

“Seven?Fine.Just come and get the parking tags when we open at
eight.I’ll tell the custodian
you’ll be starting then.

“Thank
you.” I said… and did not move.The woman peered over her glasses at me.

There
was a reason I didn’t move.I’d
discovered the reason way over at the front workstation.To her workstation’s right was made up
shelving holding a supply of different types of U. S. Postal Service box
mailers.Upon one stack of these
and within the cavity of the shelf was a large four volume set of Victorian era
books showing their …crimson Morocco leather and gilt gold spine ends.Amidst the office supplies a person of
rare books …could not miss them.But I did not see them at first.What I DID see from the front workstation was… an old, large, upside
down HEINZ 57 tomato soup can… sitting before the box mailer shelf at the front
right of the workstation.“That’s
Can’s can.” my mind had dutifully reported and… then summoned me hither.

I
moved.I reached out toward the
can rim and said “I didn’t KNOW Heinz made TOMATO soup.”

“Neither
did I.But that’s an old can.” The
woman said and QUICKLY REACHED ahead of me and PLUCKED the can away in her hand
saying “I don’t think they make it anymore.”She pivoted in her chair and set the can down on the floor
among the boxed office clutter behind her.“I have to get that out of here” she said.

I
gave that whole; the can, the pluck and the behind-on-the-floor placement a
desperate grimace?I hope not… but
I probably did.There was nothing
to do; I COULDN’T say “THAT’S CAN’S CAN LET ME SEE IT”.Nope; brings trouble.The deal comes first.I did look downward AT the can.“It’s Can’s can” I mentally logged
again.And turned my attention to
the …old books

I
bent over, downward and eyed UPWARD upon the RED AND GOLD spine ends to read
“BRYANT’S POPULAR HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES”.“A nothing” my mind reported.The set IS a nothing in rare books.SHE saw ME peering.I scrambled verbiage:“Those are BEAUTIFUL old BOOKS; JUST
LIKE what MY WIFE WANTS.THAT RED
with GOLD!”

“Yes
those.They are.Beautiful.” The woman said with out
moving from her slight-bent-forward typing poise with the over the glasses
looking-at-me position.SHE did
NOT look at the books.

AS
she did that I reached forward to the first volume; Volume One, and… lifted it
EXTRA SLOWLY AND CAREFULLY up and outward.The woman said noting.I opened the cover to title page it.Inside the front cover on the front fly leaf was a crisp and
fresh ballpoint note reading “TO THE HISTORY DEPARTMENT OF THE UNIVERSITY OF
******* WITH EVERLASTING AFFECTION CARL”.The woman watched me read that.I made NO anything and PROMPTLY opened to the title page:“1881!THAT IS OLD!” I said.

“Yes.Those are very old books.” she said
with a release of tension.I was
already putting the volume …extra especially slowly and carefully… BACK.

“HANDSOME
COPY.” I said.“OK:TOMORROW AT SEVEN.Good.Thank you.”

“Thank
YOU.” She said as I turned… and walked away.Down the hall to down the next hall to across the foyer to
outside the building to inside the truck to back out and drive away.I did NOT go to the office.THAT could cause TROUBLE.I HAVE the KEY.All I have to do is… sweat the deal for
…nineteen hours.w

Monday, October 29, 2012

Purchase
offers are not fun.I prefer them
done quickly and briskly.Standing
in the hallway, I had the history professor TOUCHING my back while my front was
TOUCHING the closed “CLICK” – LATCH office door WITH my left hand retrieving
the key to this office door from my jacket pocket, putting it into the door’s
keyhole and “click”-LOCK that door while… reverse butt-blocking-backup into
HIM, who yielded backwards and… said “Your leaving?”

“Time
to report to Mr. Lawyer.” I said… as I turned leftward to face DOWN THE HALL
and STEPPED AWAY in that direction.

The
history professor said something else:“Door isn’t OFFICE LOCK?” or something like that.I didn’t respond.I paced right out of there

Out
of the next hall.Through the
foyer.Out the rear door.To where the college people’s cars were
parked.To where my truck was
parked.To where the lawyer was
parked next to me.

He
wasn’t in his car.I could see
him… about sixty feet away in the middle of a green space (mowed lawn with
meticulously maintained ornamental trees each having an aluminum identification
tag stuck into the lawn before it).He was facing the cars and verbally hammering into his cell phone while
gesturing with his free arm.He
saw me and started walking toward me …still hammering the cell… .At twenty steps his arm dropped the
cell from his ear and he strode onward staring down at it and thumbing the
buttons.“Great” was my mental
qualification of the …making the purchase offer setting developing before
me.He peered hard and downward at
the phone, squinting.“Email” I
mentally stated.His eyes came up
and on me… at fifteen feet.

“Delivering
PROGRESS I hope.” He said.

“Progress?”

“Your
done?”

“Yes.”

“LOCKED
it?

“Here’s
the key.” I said raising it from my left pocket.

“KEEP
the key.How much?”

Just
to help this moment a little bit I give notice that this is… very much NOT the
first time I have purchase offered …the gentleman.In fact without the heritage of all of the other purchase
offers… and the follow through servicing of those purchase offers… including
the smack-dab “I DON’T WANT IT”… I wouldn’t even be here.HE knows MY roulette wheel SPINS and
the purchase offer slot “varies” (his word).I KNOW he knows THAT.I KNOW I can …count on THAT.HE thinks it’s all a mystery WHAT the purchase offer roulette slot IS
…unless “it” (the purposed purchase offer lot) happens to be something HE
thinks HE knows “IS GOOD” (20th century successful lawyer look brown
faux rich looking furniture, decorative arts and… bland gold framed European –
English “ART WORK AND PAINTINGS”.That I “don’t want it” on that stuff… blows his mind.So I told him all that stuff is “too
good for me”, to get a better dealer (usually an auctioneer in the end) and…
what great taste he has, etc. and et al.“Show me the stuff you hate.” I tell him.He does.I
thank him for doing that; he’s very professional.This office lot is a perfect example of that kind of “pain
in the ass” (his words) purchase lot.

I return to the purchase offer face
off:He’s at six feet away:

“Twenty-two
fifty.CLEANED OUT by five.”

“Can’t
do that.Tomorrow.Twenty-two?”

“FIVE.Tomorrow?”

“That’s
your best?

“I’m
squeezing it”.

“Squeeze
it better?”

“Eighteen
fifty.”

“Eighteen
fifty?”

“That’s
what I want to pay.”

“LESS?”

“You
didn’t like twenty-two five.”

“I
didn’t say THAT.I said SQUEEZE
IT”.

“I
just did”

“The
wrong way”.

“Not
for ME.There’s HOURS in that
shit.That’s not pretty in
there.That’s fifty years MESS.And God know what too.”

“Twenty-two?”

“EIGHTEEN
FIFTY.Squeezed.”

“TWENTY-TWO
FIFTY squeezed.

“Ok;
SIXTEEN-FIFTY SQUASHED.”

Pause.

“Your
impossible:NUT”.

“You
don’t have to do it.What do you
think?It’s FREE?I’m paying YOU money to clean out THAT
SHIT PILE.”

“That’s
what you do.I HIRE YOU TO DO
THAT!”

“SO
HIRE ME.”

“Twenty-two.”

“Twenty-two.”

“FIFTY!”

“Fifty.”

“He
has a wife you know.”

“SHE
DOESN’T WANT ANY OF THAT SHIT”.

I
wrote the check.I kept the
key.I promised to “TELL THE
SECRETARY IN THE HISTORY OFFICE I’LL CALL HER RIGHT NOW.

“Don’t
forget the PARKING TAGS I NEED THREE”.

“Three?Why three?”

“Done
by noon?”

“Really?Good.Give the key back to the office.LOCK THE DOOR.Call my office.”Mr. Lawyer
was getting into his car.He
closed his door.He didn’t look at
me.I stepped around the front of
my truck.He backed out and drove
away.I was alone… with an old
dead professor emeritus’ office contents that I just spent two-K-plus on and… I
COULDN’T EVEN GO IN TO IT AND START GETTING THE STUFF OUT OF THERE FOR …in
twenty-four hours I would have the cleanout DONE… BUT:“I have the key.The keys: WHO HAS THE KEYS… to that
office?”

Twenty-four
hours is a very, very, VERY long time to leave a purchased lot of antiques (and
rare books) NOT GUARDED… especially if one doesn’t know “Who has a KEY?”

There
was nothing I could do about this… except “sweat it out”.THERE IS NOTHING I CAN DO ABOUT THIS
SITUATION-THAT-OCCURS-VERY-FREQUENTLY IN MY “estate buying”… except sweat it
out.OH do I HATE “sweating it out”.But one has NO CHOICE for the simple
route of assurance and safety is ATTRACT NO ATTENTION IN ANY WAY AT ALL…to a…
the deal.Attention attracted is
TROUBLE.“Risk” and “risk
management” is the solution.In
the outside and benevolent world they have three day seminars on risk and risk
management.I burn risk and risk
management as high octane fuel.A
three day seminar will do me no good.I am ALWAYS in economic “fully exposed” free fall; jumping out of an
airplane with a checkbook in my mouth (“better hope that sucker opens”).Leaving that purchase lot “wide open”
for, nearly exactly, twenty hours, was, for me… a classic “I HATE SWEATING IT
OUT” normal.If… one cannot write
a check payment to an unattached third party (to the actual purchase lot) with
NO anything including “a hand shake”, “promises-promises”, “paperwork” and “can
I”… such is ‘not competitive’.In
fact, such is not even there… unless its such as “my aunt’s house (estate)” or
a… some such phony setup.

Sunday, October 28, 2012

“THE LOBSTER CATCHERSA STORY OF THE COAST OF MAINE”.James Otis, E. P. Dutton & Company, New York, (1900).Original brown cloth with gilt gold
title on the spine and front cover.Black and white pictorial decoration on the front cover and black and
white cartouche decoration on the spine.Illustrated with engraved and photographic plates.Top edge gilt. Attractive nasty neat
1900 personal private library notes and “from Uncle John…” inscription on front
end papers and fly leaf.All text
compete, as issued and perfect.(i)-vii, (viii), 1- 308 pp..6” wide by 8 1/4” tall.This
copy is in particularly very good estate found collector grade fine condition
being a clean, crisp and unshaken copy with fine interior, illustrations,
end papers and covers noting the frontis tissue guard removed and
otherwise only the most minor appropriate surface oxidation, spine end, corner wear, rubbing and lightest exposed cover soiling all appropriate to
its age.As found in a Thomaston, Maine estate.$165.00

“Perhaps
it is SILLY but… the FAMILY has kept all his books in his library cabinet just
the way HE kept them since he died.I’ve never dared touch them EVER during my whole life!”She; the eldest granddaughter, really
HAD never “touch them EVER” and did not break tradition here before me.Squatting down, it was I who… eyed
them; the spine ends… after opening the locked-with-the-key-in-the-lock double
glass door short bookcase-cabinet.I slowly reach for one book’s spine back top and… slowly slid it
outward… and stopped before it was out… and slide it back in.

“NOW
what do I do?” my mind blistered for …I didn’t need to TOUCH any of these old
books EITHER.I JUST NEEDED TO BUY
THEM, get them out of there and …LEAVE.The anarchy of the estate trade purchasing play script touched to ignite
the three dimensional chaos of …never ending, always changing and never
repeating… estate setting… and that ignited a third bomb of ...dark, cold, wet,
rainy, fall and late morning nearing lunch time in a dark, cold, creeping moist
and rain spattering against the windows… dead Grandfather’s turned OFF, closed
up …and now the… FAMILY’S estate… to raise the radical black flag in my mind
of… including the CABINET in the offer TOO.So I said out loud without rising or turning to face the
Granddaughter “One thousand six hundred FIFTY dollars with the bookcase”.

Silence.Then a foot-ish shuffling noise on the
floor behind me.Then “Well; that
would be fine.” stated to my back by the Granddaughter.

This…
rare Maine book was in that cabinet.

I
have read this book, although not this copy… cover to cover.It was the photographic illustrations
that gripped me with concern that this “juvenile” …wasn’t one.It is one; a juvenile…and it isn’t
one.It’s a juvenile because it’s
about a boy, a girl, some bad boys, a rich man, mother, brothers and sisters
and an Uncle whose a minister.Behind that is the Maine coast, lobstering, lobster men, lobster boats,
lobster business and… these are shown in the photographic illustrations.The boy’s plight, plot and adventures
are laid out in text strings that never windup in the end and were evidently
designed to create a series upon this single first effort should this
“juvenile” take off with youthful readers.It didn’t.It
is obscure, forgotten and rare.

Delightfully
the story is otherwise a crash course portrayal of a middleman nitch of the
lobster catcher industry.This
book is NOT about one man going out in a little boat and “pulling his
traps”.It’s about a bigger steam
powered boat that travels about the coastline and islands buying up these
single men’s “catches” of 200 to 2000 …bartered for in PENNIES… lobsters,
loading them on to the boat and dashing this full boat load of these purchased
lobsters to the …wholesale market dealer on shore who ships by train in large
wooden barrels full of ice packed lobsters “WEST”.Far west.Fast.They must be sold on
shore before (1) the lobsters eat each other (for real) and (2) the price per
lobster (in PENNIES) “goes down”.The story lays this whole circa 1880-1900 lobster middleman’s world out…
bare knuckle and in dollars and cents.That makes this book… wonderful Maine coast occupational history.And a rare Maine book.

End
of conversation.Except for one
point; a tragic point:This book,
in rare book collection sensibilities… is best and beautiful… as a “condition
freak” collector’s “FINE” condition “copy”.Preferably “super fine”.This is because it is one of those “old books” that doesn’t
appeal to the eye …and diminishes in appeal rapidly… as its condition strays
from “super fine”.A “fine” copy
is yummy to the eye.Otherwise its
beauty as an old book drops …and so does interest.I know of what I write because… I am a dealer and… I am NOT
a condition freak.Most of the
Americana I handle avoids the “perfect fine condition” issue by its very
nature.SO WHEN I SAY THIS BOOK IS
“best” “in fine condition” I mean what I say.Most of the few copies that pop up in the market are in bad
condition.Because of this the
“know of” and appreciation of this …rare Maine book… is furthered wanting.

What
I’ve found even odder… is that Maine scholarship mention of “THE LOBSTER
CATCHERS” is, TOO, wanting.Usually, in the world of Maine rare books, Maine scholars always way,
way, way off and away manage to find a “most obscure” tidbit of historic
reference, note it, clearly report on it and… shelve it in their bibliography
for all to see.With this book, I
find “zero” for this actually dependable root & route of reference for this
Maine coastal GEM of an old book.Example?The Martin &
Lipfert, Maine Maritime Museum, Bath, Maine, “LOBSTERING AND THE MAINE COAST”;
a somewhat line in the sand and certainly “best” reference study to the old
Maine coast lobstering trade… not only does not include any mention of this
book but also doesn’t include any treatment of the nitch middle market that
Otis’ “THE LOBSTER CATCHERS” is about.Most soundly on Otis, they not only do not include him in their
bibliography but their bibliography does …not even have ONE reference under the
letter “O”.They have references
under “N” and under “P”, but none for “O”.Certainly this assures that “THE LOBSTER CATCHERS” is …a
rare Maine book.

Wednesday, October 24, 2012

In
the antiques business… and the rare book trade… there is a fine line between
time and intrigue.The rule I
follow is “do business now – look at it (any and all objects) later”.With my pretended and timed purchase
offer inspection in its closing minutes to making the actual purchase offer…
successfully… it is NOT good to …stop.But I did.Because it was
Sam.

Sam
Patch, who one may amply summarize by a few internet search buttons, is the
source of the slogan utterance “Some things may be done as well as
others”.That actually applies
right here right now.I was “time
up” battened down and buckled up for my “buy it” offer inclusive of …bending
through the phony inspection maze …without setting off the smoke alarm of the
history professor.“Yep.” and I
just have to close the drawer, shoehorn past that drawer and to the office
door, then step outside and CLOSE and LOCK THAT DOOR.All the while smiling and saying “WHAT A NICE DAY IT IS!” to
this …about to be locked out of the old dead emeritus’ office forever… chum…
I’d picked up.

Stopping
this freight train was not smart.Especially as the stoppage cause was instigated BY my new chum.But, again, I DID stop.Because it was Sam.

The
problem with Sam is that once one configures the jumping Sam AND his slogan
into the Americana of one’s life, including rare book dealing, two black holes
become before thee.First there is
the Americana enigma of Sam Patch jumping from waterfalls to make a living,
drowning after a short career doing that and his flaunting this occupation with
“Some things may be done as well as others”.An original, proverbial …and bare bones… American shooting
star.The second is that there is
very, very… VERY little Sam Patch “material” (rare bookseller’s term for old
books, pamphlets, broadsides, ephemera, et al,) “around”.One such as myself may know of Sam, his
jumping AND his slogan and… not ever “see anything” as a rare Americana
specialist “since (first learning of Sam in) high school”.Looking down at the page’s head title
AND seeing the next pages headers carrying Sam’s name AND seeing a “Biography”
as a ballad-poem printed below AFTER a printed introduction DID NOT stop me as
much as the FULL PAGE INSERTED WOODCUT ILLUSTRATION PRINTED PLATE of Sam in the
middle of the Genesee River (Rochester, N.Y.) waterfall “his last jump”
inclusive of tiny stick figure spectators way up at the fall’s top… .

The
pretend-time-up buzzer went off in my brain as that same brain… FELL IN LOVE…
with this “stupid print” of “stupid man” drowning.

“Can
ALWAYS showed EVERYONE THAT!” said the history professor to MY before him
discovery of the woodcut plate.

“This?”
I said tilting the exposed plate toward him.

“That.He loved Sam Patch.I never could understand THAT.I still do not understand WHY Sam
Patch”.

“Some
things may be done as well as others.” I said.

“THAT’S
what HE SAID Sam said ALL THE TIME”.

“But
its true.” I said.

“It’s
stupid.” the professor said.

I
looked up at the professor from the book.I looked at him in the eyes.He looked at me.“This is
stupid?” I said vaguely gesturing, with two hands on the book, to the …packed
and stacked box filled to the ZENITH… office.“THIS office IS that slogan”.

“This
office?THIS?” said the professor
gesturing with one hand to all the surrounding stack up.

“Yep”
I said… retreating.“This guy was
a NUT.” I continued and… closed the book and tossed it gently back into the
drawer.I was intentionally
inconclusive as to WHO; Can or Sam, was “a NUT”.I bent down and picked up the second book. I raised it
revealing a thicker, in wastebasket condition, Victorian brown publisher’s
cloth “spine perished” old book.I
title paged it:“Curzon” my mind
identified.“Monasteries; his
second book- a zero” my mind continued.“He was reading it?” my mind finalized.

I,
with no comment, quickly tossed THAT book back into the drawer.It didn’t land well; flopping open to
the center of the text with the binding separating at these pages.I didn’t care.My time was up.

Curzon
is “Hon. Robert Curzon, Jun.” who brings a spicy tidbit to the reader of rare
book selling, dealing and purloining literature. English, a man of leisure, Curzon went hunting very ancient
manuscript books in the “Levant” in the first half of the 19th
century, was successful doing that and …wrote a book about doing it.Of the trio of “selling, dealing and
purloining” above, he purloined and the book is about that.Not only is it a not-so-lost-anymore
classic and a “true and spicy to read”, it has always… and continues to be… a
some-where-along-the-way… discovered and must read for a well rounded rare book
collector or dealer.Again, a
spicy read… about old books purloined from exotic locations that …is not going
to happen ever again… or happen in BOOK FORM ever again.THIS “Curzon” being his second book
about the same subject “pails” compared with the first.This man; “Can”… I QUICKLY understood…
had this book drawered there because he was trying to “poke at it” to see if on
the odd chance “they are wrong about it” and MAYBE there is something in this
one that’s spicy TOO?The actual
market for the two books tells all; the first book is six to eight
hundred.This second… eighty-five
(dollars) is “to much”.BUT TO ME…
the discovery of this “last book looked at” during my “inspection”… fit PERFECTLY
into my … purchase offer “inspection summary”.Tossed back into it’s “drawered” poise, it could wait there
until I …owned IT and EVERYTHING ELSE.“TIME TO GO!” I announced as the drawer bumped shut and my butt wedged
around the desk’s side as I used my whole approaching body to…force the history
professor to backup OUT OF THE OFFICE and into the hallway.

Friday, October 19, 2012

My
left hand gripped that drawer handle to the desk’s file drawer below… and
pulled.It opened easily; gliding
open.The history professor too…
glided OVER the desk… in a bend-at-the-waist… so to head and nose above… this
opening drawer.He could not see
beyond the far back of the drawer’s bottom while I, viewing downward from
above… could see all of the drawer’s interior.

“CAN’S
CAN IS IN THERE!” the professor said in a robust burst-forth tone of statement
and definition.As I was already
looking downward and into the drawer this verbiage hit my upper right side as
the left side merged with my eye focusing to…see only… two smaller old books (as dark forms) upon…
shallow stacked and scrunched down old papers.

“Can
can?” I said as my mind said “old… book book”.

“CAN’S
CAN; the CAN in there!”

“Can
in there?”

“The
CAN”.

“There’s
no can.”

“The
CAN is CAN’s CAN.”

“There’s
no can.” I said looking up upon the… further endeavoring to bend forward over
the desk history professor

“NO
CAN?” he said.

“No
can.” I said.

He
bent as far as possible so he could actually see most of the drawer.“No can.” He said.“But Can’s CAN is ALWAYS there.Right THERE”.

“No
can.” I said after actually looking back down into what was a fairly EMPTY
drawer.

“Gone?”
the history professor said.

“You
say?” I said looking back at him.

“Never
GONE.Why now?”

“A
can?”

“HIS
CAN; Can’s can.THE CAN.HIS CAN.”

“A
can he used?”

“NO:THE CAN”. He said in an… imploring
tone.

“I
don’t see one.” I said in a …firm tone.“Why?”

“He
kept HIS CAN there:The CAN!”

Here
a “dawning on me” occurred of minor dot to dot connecting; can, a TIN can, that
was Carlton B. Worth’s tin can so was for some reason in THIS drawer but NOT
THERE NOW but was HIS “can” so therefore “Can’s CAN” for …that’s why this
professor calls him “CAN”.That
is… “CAN” is a shortened nickname from Carlton based on his “CAN” that was
suppose to be in this drawer.“Why
the can? I said and regretted it.

“WELL
that WAS HIS way of lecturing THEM about THEIR FOOLISHNESS.” Said the professor
straightening back up and directing his erect-all AT ME in a way that lumped ME
into “THEIR FOOLISHNESS”.

I
took the bait:“Lecturing them?”

“His
CAN story.He be listening to
them.He HATED ‘their slow murmur
of disconnected speak derived self spooning mush at me from between their ears’
as he called it.He’d open the
drawer, take out the can and but it between them on the desk

“A
can?Of what?”

“It
is an empty can.It is an old
empty can of tomato soup.”

“Tomato
soup?” I said.

“Yes.A larger old can.HEINZ 57 Tomato Soup.UP side down.He’d originally opened it up side down.

“Up
side down?”

“Yes.Then he’d tell them how this was the
first can of soup he ever bought.How he was twelve.How he
got a job loading grain at the store in town.How he was working in a cold rain.How wet he was.HOW COLD he was.How
hungry.HOW he went into the store
and bought the soup with the money he’d just earned.How he opened the can and heated the soup on the store’s
stove.How he mixed in milk and
drank as much of the soup has he could.How much better he felt.How the store owner saw him do all this.How owner came over to him and spoke to him about it saying
that he’d seen him earn the money in the cold and then spend it on the hot
soup.He told Can that by doing
that the soup would ‘stick with him for life’.How he, Can, forever after has KEPT the can to remind him
and how that reminder of seeing the can has guided him to a successful career
and fine life.He’d tell the
student that story.Then he’d put
the can back in the drawer and dismiss the student.Most of them bucked-up after that.We’d all say we wanted to barrow his can to use on our own
students.”

“That’s
it?” I said… hoping that the saga of Can’s can… was over.I promoted that hope by reaching down
and retrieving the near old book.“Blue boards half calf” my mind spoke.“No title (on spine)” it continued as the book rose in my
hand

“I
WONDER where it IS?” said the professor.

I
stood up with the book, faced him, said nothing, looked down at the book and
…title paged it:“MAJOR JACK
DOWNING” appeared, with his finger in his nose, on the frontis plate while the
title page next to it prefixed that name with “LIFE AND WRITINGS”.My eye dropped to the imprint… date…
“1834”.“Second Edition” it said
above that date and I SAID THAT TOO.I never find “a first” edition.I ALWAYS find “later editions”.I am NOT a Seba Smith (author) “Down East Maine” “written in local
dialect” “rustic threadbare satirical humor” …buff.I see the book, find the book, buy the book, sell the
book.Although attributed as a
core source of the school of “Yankee humor, I find it… unreadable.The only copy of the book to get excited
about is an “1833” first edition.THOSE are hard to find.And
all I have to read is …the date.I
prepared to… pitch the worthless old book… back into the drawer.

“THAT’S
SAM PATCH!” said the history professor.

“Sam
Patch?” I said holding the book open and looking up.

“Can’s
SAM PATCH.”

“Can’s
DOWNING!” I SAID lifting the book upward.

“NO:PATCH.SAM PATCH.That’s THAT BOOK!” he shot back.

“No…
MAJOR DOWNING” I said showing the book’s exposed title page to him.

“SAM
PATCH” he said and… TOOK the book from my hands, reversed it, thumbed it, stopped
at an open page and turned the book back to me.I took it back and peered down at the open page to read a
head title “MAJOR DOWNING’S BIOGRAPHY OF SAM PATCH THE JUMPER”.

Friday, October 12, 2012

My
extending hand, scrutinized by four eyeballs, passed the center drawer, dipped
below the desktop edge and, with left handed sweep, reached, gripped, pulled
upon and opened …the smooth sliding far left top drawer.Out it came, back to my left.The four eyeballs ceased tracking the
hand and halted in expectation examination of the rapidly exposed shallow
drawer’s contents.

Paper
clips, stapler, scissor, pen, pencil, partially eaten roll of old wintergreen
Life Saviors, eraser, Kleenex packet, old Kit-Kat candy bar and a single glove
occupying the fore drawer and thinning toward the back to expose empty drawer
bottom… THERE FINDS… one old book upon a handful (3) of pamphlets.

The
hesitation of finding the visual end of the reach-pull-open-see… drawer… and
that drawer’s open sea of… nothing-to-see… but another old book butted against
the rear of a drawer otherwise filled with… no treasure… and only… “unworthy of
comment”… iota DID NOT stop my eyeball pair from disregarding the other eyeball
pair and message-send-me “OLD BOOK PICK IT UP”.

This
my left hand, in retreat from the drawer handle, did.A CRISP and “FINE”in blind stamp decorated brown publisher’s cloth, “6mo” “not too thick”,
was the hand’s purloining.With
this hand retrieving and rising my eyes did a rare bookman’s spine end glance;
“gilt title read DEXTER”, within the sliced AND DICED second of time to allow
the eyeballs to skip-back to the pamphlet stack top TOO to see the word
“PICKLE” revealed at the top pamphlet’s title head… .

Am
I crazy or “NO” for I am attempting to convey HOW VERY FAST the rare book “of
value” appraisal has taken place AND IS ALREADY moving on to “totaling it up”
(“Can B. Worth”) while my idiot companion’s second set of “he doesn’t know”
eyes falters and has “fallen back”.I knew the books; the one in my hand and the top pamphlet; “OH”.I said.

The
historian did not know.He stood
there staring at… the Kit-Kat Bar?“Dexter” I said to the spine end of the octavo and… title paged it
without more than a flutter glance for I KNEW THAT title already but
“CONDITION” was my actual “TAKE IT” for it was a “FINE CRISP” of a tome usually
found “ratty” and worn.My
eyeballs continued to take-action-eyeball-speak to ME saying “NICE” and to
“PICK UP” to my left hand roving toward the pamphlets.Several old postcards spilled from the
flat space between the tome’s title page and the front cover of the… “old
book”.Seeing them to be “old
Dexter’s mansion” well known to me my right thumb pushed them back into the
book.

The
three pamphlet stack of “PICKLE” rose in my left while the “DEXTER” remained
suspended in my right. My eyeballs
READ the top pamphlet’s imprint date (the publisher/printers“date at the bottom”) “1848” as my left
thumb tucked in and pushed the “each” pamphlet below DOWNWARD just enough to
show “title” and “imprint” WITHOUT displaying this effort “to gain
knowledge”.The result?Two “same title” “PICKLE” with “1847”
and “1838”.All three, therefore
in summary being, LATER editions of Timothy Dexter’s “A PICKLE FOR THE KNOWING
ONES” with the “old book” being the classic 1858 “LIFE OF” Timothy “Newburyport”
and “Boston”.Therefore:A rare book collector’s “CLUTCH” of the
“Eccentric”.How “eccentric” is
STILL debated.

BACK
into the drawer’s BACK and butted BACK went the left handed pamphlets followed
by the right handed “LIFE OF” and the drawer …left handed… gracefully…
CLOSED.“Done” in MY rare
bookman’s “MOVE ON” “ten minutes left” (?) time slot because “I KNEW”.I give a paragraph now, between
drawers, so those reading may “know too?”.

Timothy
Dexter IS the historic “eccentric” “writer” and “wealthy” “successful” sailing
ship era “merchant” of Newburyport, Massachusetts.The internet will supply a reader with ALL.Quickly:Of low and poor “largely uneducated” origins he married well
enough to capitalize a merchant start that took off due to the perpetual
reversal of should-fail-and-bankrupt-him trades that, remarkably, ALWAYS turned
HIS WAY for “large gain” so creating him to be a “one of the very successful
merchants” of the village IN SPITE OF LOATHING and class dismissal by the
other… mostly NOT as successful merchants.Shunned, excluded and “a buffoon”, he, through his singular
perspective of his… self taught not educated vantage… went on to build his
grand mansion, write his legacy memoir “A PICKLE” and stride the Newbury street
in fine garb with his little doggie (the HE DESIGNED woodcut illustration on
the copies of pickle in the photographs).He revenge of legacy is a classic Old New England fixture.It began while he was alive, continued
after his death and has silently become permanent ever since with the classic
support of those who “like” assuring and those who …do not… further assuring…
by assuring… that they DO NOT “like”.Today, he has long and largely “distanced” ALL other of his Newburyport
merchant peers.The designation of
“eccentric” be but a… quoting Dexter in a different context… “peper and solt it
as thay plese”.I have long been
with Dexter.To be a “not with” I
feel may be a personal peril.

The
little quote above is a choice morsel of Dexter’s merchant minding.His first and excessively rare edition
of “PICKLE” not only was written as the quote’s spelling suggests but …had no
punctuation.His shunning fellows
latched upon THAT.Dexter, in his
second and ever after editions, changed and corrected NOTHING but added two
pages of punctuation at the end of the pamphlet so that the reader may “peper
and solt it as thay plese”.That
charm of merchant genius extends throughout ALL of Dexter’s legacy and… “rare
books”.

About Me

This blog is about northern New England antiques and rare books. It is stories, vignettes and profiles of objects and stories of buying and selling these things. Most of the featured items, the settings and the stories are about traditional and classic New England antiques and rare books from before the Civil War.